All she wore was lace.
Alice Notley, from In The Pines: Poems; “The Portion Accruing To Ears,”
Etikett: poetry
“Sometimes, the bees tell her,
things that are sweet like this
attract the worst kind of hungry.”— Emma Bleker, From The Mouths Of The Bees, published in Rising Phoenix Review
(via risingphoenixpress)
Seven days inside myself seem like an eternity.
Gabriela Mistral, from a letter to Doris Dana written c. April 1949
“If her voice calms you, keep her”
— She is honey (via krystenleigh)
“Do you like me? Would you miss me if I disappeared? Have you been depressed?”
— Vita Sackville-West, from a letter to Virginia Woolf written c. August 1927
I know that I am ruined and that I’m ruining others…
Fydoror Dostoevsky, from The Complete Works; “The Insulted and Humiliated,”
Little words can mean
death or life sometimes.
Sophocles, from Elektra, trans. Anne Carson, ‘An Oresteia’.
In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.
Charles Baudelaire
Never, never must we fail to seek meaning in the unending content of each day. It exists, it is what we are given; we must treasure its givenness, even though it contains only little things, petty things.
Olga Freidenberg, from an unsent letter to Boris Pasternak c. 1927
Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
beberequin 